


For the Want of An Annoying Little Dog

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: Frasier - Fandom
Genre: Animal Abuse, Community: comment_fic, Gen, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Eddie's death leaves a hole.  <br/>Disclaimer:  If I owned any of this, I'd be sitting in the catbird seat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Want of An Annoying Little Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leni/gifts).



It’s too quiet, without the patter of claws running through the apartment. And Martin, he’s miserable without that little white and tan shadow trotting after him. Frasier hates to admit it, but he misses Eddie, too. It seems maudlin to mourn the annoying little terrier, with his obsessive ways (Frasier doesn’t want to think of how often he’d caught the dog trotting in circles on the table, nor rooting in the couch cushions, or squirming on his own bedding, leaving coarse white hairs and rumbled sheets in his wake). But it’s hard to come home to the apartment, and not find Eddie waiting expectantly – for anything, even if it’s just Frasier’s exclamation, “Eddie, stop staring at me!” 

“Why don’t you just get a new dog?” Roz asks, when Frasier complains, and he considers it, but maybe, maybe it’s too soon. Eddie, after all, had built himself up to almost larger than life, despite his miniature size. And Martin has been rebuffing all his tentative suggestions to perhaps go to the shelter, or a rescue, perhaps, to find a new companion. 

But there is no denying the apartment seems larger, and quieter, and somehow, that much more empty without Eddie clicking through on his way from one irritating behavior to another. 

“It could be an experiment!” Niles says bravely, “choosing the right dog, training it! Why, we could learn so much about the human-animal connection!”

“We?” Frasier asks, rubbing his chin and raising his eyebrows. “Are ‘we’ keeping the dog out our place, as well?” 

“Oh, good heavens, no,” Niles shudders. “A dog in my apartment?”

Daphne slaps his arm with her fingers. “I’d like a dog, you know! We always had them back home, terriers, like Eddie, or border collies. Now, there’s a dog with a neurosis, a border collie! All skittery and freaky and panting all the time.” As she realizes both men have matching gleams in their eyes, she adds, “And they’ve got long bloody hair and shed like a Yeti!” 

“Oh, we can’t have that,” Frasier says, horrified.

“No, no, I’d rather have a dog that isn’t a shedder, if one must have a dog at all,” Niles shudders. 

“Besides, if the dog is for Martin, he should be the one to choose it, shouldn’t he?” Daphne rounds out the argument, pleased when both of the Crane boys fall quiet. Maybe that will be the end of it, at least for a time. 

A time that ends when they are on the streets of Seattle one evening after dinner, on a cold, damp night, walking to Frasier’s car for the drive home. “What’s that?” Martin asks, pointing with his cane. 

“A man with a dog,” Daphne says, starting to frown. 

“What’s he doing?” Niles asks, then, “Oh, God, no!” 

The dog screams, twisting on the end of its leash, trying to escape the stick the man brings down on its haunches. Martin hobbles forward, shouting, “Hey! What are you doing?” and Frasier is close behind. 

The dog cowers at the end of its leash, spinning like a kite at the end of a string. The man turns, his face twisting in rage, brandishing the stick. “Mind your own damned business!” he screams. 

Niles joins the others, his chin coming up. “I’m sorry, but we cannot. You must stop beating that dog.” Daphne nods. 

“It’s my dog, I’ll do whatever I want!” He licks his lips, though, glancing from one of them to the other, a shiftiness in his expression that Frasier doesn’t like. 

“We’ll buy the dog,” Daphne blurts out, and doesn’t stop when the men stare at her. “You name your price, we’ll pay it.” 

The man gives her a once-over, studies the Cranes, and how their dressed, and his smile makes Frasier’s stomach curdle. “Five hundred, not a penny less.” 

“Done,” Niles says sharply, and reaches for his wallet. 

It takes their combined funds, though, to pay for the dog, and it’s Daphne who takes the leash, trying to control the terrified, screaming beast at the end of it. It spins and runs and defecates in its terror, trying desperately to escape. Martin takes off his coat, and tosses it over the animal, in an attempt to calm it, and perhaps, that did, because it falls silent beneath his jacket, a quivering mound of flesh and old wool. 

Frasier picks up the stinking dog to carry it to the car, fussing about it making a mess of his leather seats, but he loads the dog into the back with Martin and Daphne anyway, while Niles searches on his cell phone for the nearest emergency veterinary clinic. 

The dog is whisked away from them once they arrive, and they take turns using the tiny washroom to clean up, and, afterward, sit or pace in the small waiting area for the vet to come and see them. 

She does, eventually, a young woman with prematurely greying hair. “There are a couple of broken ribs,” she says, “and some bruising, but her organs aren’t damaged, and her puppies should be born safely.”

“Puppies?” Frasier asks, somehow more in despair over the idea that someone would’ve hurt a pregnant mother of any species. 

“Puppies. She’s about four weeks along. Unless you’d like me to terminate the pregnancy?” The vet asks it delicately. 

“No, no, of course not,” Niles says, “we’ll take care of the mother, and the puppies. Thank you.”

“A momma dog,” Martin says, and fishes for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. Daphne squeezes his wrist. “How could someone do such a thing?”

The vet shrugs, sadly, and from the expression in her eyes, they can tell it’s a question she wishes she has the answer to. “Well, we’ll keep her overnight, to make sure she’s stable, and you can come and get her tomorrow. She’ll get all her shots, and my assistant will get you some cans of puppy food – she needs to put on weight, if she’s going to keep this litter, so you’ll need to give her small meals, multiple times during the day.” 

“We can do that,” Martin nods. “I’m home most of the day; I can take care of her.” 

“Good, good.” The vet smiles then, finally. “And you’ll have to give her a name for her records. I’d suggest a follow-up visit with your regular vet, too, if you have one.”

“We do,” Martin agrees. 

“Excellent! Well, I’ll leave you to complete the paperwork.” She hesitated at the doorway that led to the back offices. “Would you like to see her before you go?”

“Yes, of course,” Daphne says, then glances at the men, who all agree with various forms of enthusiasm. They all troop back behind the vet, past a variety of kennels, some empty, some filled with animals in various stages of healing. A grey tabby cat reaches its paw through the cage wires, grabbing at Martin as he hobbles by. He stops to rub the cat’s paw, eliciting a chorus of meows from the animal. 

“That’s the screamer,” the vet says with a wry grin. 

“He’s a nice cat.” Martin wriggles his finger at the cat, who bats at the digit. Frasier smiles faintly at the scene. 

“Here’s your girl,” the vet says, gesturing at a kennel at the floor. Inside, the dog lies on a layer of newspaper, an I.V. in her foreleg. 

Martin hunkers down carefully in front of the cage. “Hey, girl,” he says, and the dog wags her tail, a slow tattoo against the newspaper. “Yeah, you’ve had a hard time of it, but things are gonna get better for you now.” He offers his knuckles for her to smell, and she does, then licks his fingers. “Good girl, now. Who’s a good dog?” 

“She’s very young. I’d put her at only about a year old.”

“What kind is she?” Daphne squats down on the floor next to Martin, using his shoulder as a balance. 

“A terrier mix. She’s underweight, so she’ll probably be about thirty pounds. She’s a good girl, she’s just been through some hard times.” 

“Don’t worry, Doc, we’ll give her a good home.” Martin strokes the dog’s ear, smiling when she leans into the caress. 

“What kind of terrier?” Frasier asks, as the veterinarian starts to move away. 

“Probably an American Staffordshire, or an American Bulldog. They’re good dogs. They don’t deserve the reputation they have. She’s petite, though, and has more hair – that coat and beard shows one of her parents was probably another terrier, maybe a Schnauzer, or a Westie. Once she’s cleaned up, I’m sure she’ll look totally different.” 

“She looks different already.” Niles is bending down toward her, and she stretches her funny face toward him. He scratches her chin, smiling when she laces her ears back. 

“I don’t know what you folks believe, but I think animals can feel hope, too.” 

“I believe you’re right, Doctor.” Frasier folds his arms, watching as his family crooned and cooed over its newest member. “I know that we’ve found some new hope tonight, ourselves.” 

She pats his shoulder. “It’s a good thing, then.” 

Watching the dog lick Martin’s cheek, the joy on his father’s face, Frasier nods. “You really have no idea, Doctor.” 

The veterinarian squeezes his shoulder. “I think I do.” She walked away, leaving them to the new dog. 

Frasier watches her as she pauses to pet the Screamer through the bars of his kennel. “I think you do, at that.” 

“Fras, get down here, meet our new dog,” Martin says, tugging at Frasier’s pants leg. 

“Oh, all right,” he grumps, but kneels down, too, giving the dog his hand to smell. She nudges it curiously, and he scratches at her bearded cheek. “Welcome home, girl. Welcome home.”


End file.
